by Burnett, May
Milla shrugged. “When we arrive in London, how much will your stepmother mind that you do not return to her house?”
Here was yet another reason why Abigail had no desire to return to London. Her pious stepmother had plagued her with bigoted notions and constant surveillance, forced unbecoming gowns on her and fawned on the few gentlemen who had asked Abigail to dance, causing her stepdaughter agonies of mortification. Looking back, Abigail wondered at the cowering little ninny she had been, to submit so tamely to the older woman’s authority. As the daughter of a naval Captain and granddaughter of a general she should have stood her ground better – but then she had been young and naïve at the time. Fortunately all that was moot as long as they stayed here in the countryside, far away from Mrs. Trevelyan’s homilies.
“It matters little how she feels about it. By the time your mourning is done, I shall be of age.”
Abigail was only two months from the birthday after which, technically, she no longer need submit to a guardian’s authority. Luckily she had made her escape long ago. After a visit to her friend Susan in Cornwall nearly two years earlier, Abigail had never returned to her stepmother’s roof. Her father, whose commands would have been harder to flout, was sailing the oceans.
“Rob will be sad to see you leave,” Milla said pensively. “His mother, not so much.”
Robert, the current Viscount Fenton, was their closest neighbour and had become a good friend. “Mrs. Molton hopes that you’ll remarry and vacate the dower house for her own use. Once Rob brings home a wife, it would be more appropriate and comfortable for the new Viscountess that her mother-in-law should live here.”
“But she was never Lady Fenton,” Milla pointed out. “I could not care less what that woman wants, since she so clearly disapproves of me. Is it not surprising that such a censorious woman brought up an amiable son like Rob?”
“I believe it is often like that,” Abigail said absently, squinting at the strange letter before her. “Listen, Milla, before I throw this in the fire, in case it makes more sense to you than to me.”
“Very well.”
“Lady Fenton,
I am in possession of a document that you may not want to be made public, for substantial reasons. It is legally valid, but would hardly redound to the credit of your late husband’s family; and personally I see little need for additional female penitentiaries.”
“Penitentiaries? That’s prisons, isn’t it?” Milla asked sharply.
“Yes. Though why this fellow would write about such a strange subject, is beyond me. It must be some crank.”
“Maybe not. Please go on.”
“This same document contains the promise of a considerable sum for me that would help me out of a temporary embarrassment. Thus the necessity to make use of it, but in consideration of a fair lady, I offer you first purchase of the paper in question. Time is of the essence, and a failure to come to terms would cost you far more than me.
In haste,
B. Chatteris.
“Do you know this person?” Abigail asked, seeing Milla’s brow contract in furious thought. “I cannot recall any previous correspondence.”
“No, I have never heard of him. Chatteris is a place, isn’t it? We’ll have to find the fellow right away and buy this document, whatever he asks. Is there a return address?”
Abigail turned the single sheet over. “No, but the letter came from London. And though the writing is masculine in my estimation, it could have come from a woman – we only have the initial to go on. If Chatteris expects you to buy this letter, or whatever it is, how are you to find him and make an offer?”
“I daresay he will approach us if we go to London.” Milla scowled. “This is not how I envisaged my arrival in town.”
“I cannot advise you without knowing more. What document does Chatteris have in his possession, that could be costly for you?”
“My late husband’s will, it would seem.”
Abigail recoiled in surprise. “But I always understood Fenton had not left one. That is why you inherited all his assets, except those entailed upon the new Viscount.”
“He did write a will, in the period between our wedding and the duel that killed him,” Milla confessed. “I found it among his luggage and tore it into little pieces that I fed to the fishes. It was the right thing to do, even if illegal; don’t look so grave, Abigail. You would have done the same.”
Abigail doubted that. “What were its provisions? Don’t tell me you cannot remember, it is hardly the kind of detail one could forget.”
“The provisions were almost an afterthought; the thing was several pages long and a series of furious rants, accusations and insults against Susan, and me, and women in general. He claimed that Susan was a whore who had given her virginity to him before marrying Lord Northcote, that I was a greedy and calculating shrew and termagant, that our marriage had never been valid. Worst of all, apart from a bequest of five hundred guineas to a certain B. C. his entire personal fortune was to be dedicated to the erection of a prison for female inmates. He even named a large sum for the purchase of whips and manacles. It was the product of an insane and deeply vindictive mind. To let it stand would have been embarrassing to his own family as much as to the Northcotes and Winthrops.”
Abigail could not speak for a few long moments. That unutterably hateful villain – had he not caused her and her friend Susan enough hardship in life, that he had to extend his malice from beyond the grave? She had not known what it was to truly hate anyone before she crossed Lord Fenton’s path. But Milla did not know about that, and must not learn it now, after all this time. She took a deep breath and struggled for composure. “Good God. You are right; I would have destroyed that will also. So that is why the reference to female penitentiaries caught your attention – it is proof that Chatteris knows the details of Lord Fenton’s will. But how, if you tore it up?”
“It must have been just a draft, not the final version. I should have guessed as much, as he used initials here and there, such as for B. C., who must be this B. Chatteris. In the actual will Fenton would have written them out. He must have mailed the original somewhere before the duel. But why does it come up now, after all this time? Why did Chatteris not offer it to me right away?”
“Perhaps he also felt it was better suppressed, but urgently needs money now and sees the will as an asset. You don’t have any choice but to pay.”
“I don’t remember any Chatteris writing to me upon Fenton’s death. If he had been a family connection or old friend, would he not have done so? Who is he?”
“If he is a connection, Rob may know,” Abigail suggested. But maybe not. The new Viscount had been a naval man before inheriting the title, and had been living aboard ship since the tender age of eleven. A distant cousin of his predecessor, he had never expected to inherit, and there had been little contact between their families.
“We had best ask him before we leave,” Milla agreed, “but I doubt he’ll know any more than we do. Should we tell him about the lost will, Abigail?”
Abigail considered only for a moment. “Buying and destroying a will is a crime. Though he would sympathize with our motives, I expect, and stands to gain or lose nothing if the original will should be upheld after all, why burden him with this? It would only worry him unnecessarily. Whatever guilt is involved, let it rest on us, who are more directly concerned.”
Milla gave her an uncomfortably searching look. “You have no qualms, Abigail, about this matter? You are always so upright and principled.”
Abigail shook her head. “None whatsoever. It will give me pleasure to thwart that devil’s wishes even after his death. He was an utter scoundrel, and it is in character that he would add to the sum of human misery even now. He will not succeed, if I have anything to say to the matter.” After a moment she added, more prosaically, “We had better start packing right away.”
As she hurried to give the order to their maids, she wondered if she had been too empathic – Mill
a must not know how much reason Abigail had to hate and detest the late Lord Fenton. Only her friend Susan and Susan’s husband were aware of the story – and Susan’s brother Jeremy, Lord Barton.
Susan and her husband were far away in Cornwall, but in their absence, Lord Barton would have to be alerted. He would be livid if false accusations against his beloved sister came to light. Fenton had been obsessed with Lady Susan, but whatever he might have believed and written in his will, Susan had never surrendered her virtue to him. She must not be harmed by this new development, after all she had done for Abigail. With luck, Milla and Abigail would be able to buy and destroy the will before Susan even got wind of the story.
Had it been up to her, Abigail would have preferred not to have any further dealings with Viscount Barton. Occasionally she came across his name in the society pages, as having attended this or that ball, and recently there had been a broad hint that he was courting some well-born debutante.
If he was in love with this lady, or even engaged, it had nothing at all to do with her. That would merely be an additional motive to head off a nasty scandal involving his family. It was already bad enough that Lord Barton had had to kill Fenton in a duel, risking prison or exile. He had acted in an exemplary manner throughout, and did not deserve further aggravation.
How would he react to this threat?
Chapter 2
“Lady Fenton and Miss Trevelyan for you, Ma’am, my lord,” the butler intoned with practiced indifference.
“So early? It is not yet eleven,” Mrs. Molton said in faint surprise, while her son smiled in pleased anticipation. “I wonder what they can want. We were to have seen them for dinner tomorrow, in any case.”
“Bring the ladies to us right away,” Rob ordered before turning to her. “Maybe they are frightened of this white lady that is supposed to haunt the village. Two of my tenants saw her riding last night, impossibly fast, they claim.”
Mrs. Molton did not bother to reply, but she would have been greatly surprised if that was the reason for the call. She strongly suspected that when Lady Fenton moved away from the area, the mysterious white lady’s rides would cease as suddenly as they had begun.
“Mrs. Molton, Rob,” Milla said with that blinding smile of hers, that showed off her perfect white teeth and made her look young und appealing. It had not taken Mrs. Molton more than a few weeks, however, to take the young lady’s measure and to give up all hopes of reuniting the family fortune by Rob’s marriage to the lovely virago. Indeed, she frequently rendered thanks to the Almighty that her son had proved immune to the widow’s considerable charms. Not that Milla had tried to fascinate him, it had to be admitted in fairness; but she was so beautiful that she could easily have succeeded without even trying.
Instead, Rob was unaccountably attracted to Miss Trevelyan, under whose father he had served for two years as a youthful midshipman. He still entertained a lively respect for Captain Trevelyan, and brushed aside his mother’s view that as a Viscount he should look higher.
Miss Trevelyan, most strangely, had firmly rebuffed Rob’s interest. As far as Mrs. Molton was aware, it had never come to an actual proposal. She was not enthusiastic about the match. Rob ought to marry money to make up for the fortune that had been lost to Milla, and she did not expect that Miss Trevelyan would bring her husband more than ten thousand at most. She had nothing against Miss Trevelyan herself; a quiet, well-bred girl, not beautiful but pretty enough with her ash-blond hair, fair complexion and soft curves. She had countenance, and would make an acceptable Viscountess. As her disinterest could not possibly have anything to do with Rob, as handsome as he was kind-hearted, there must be some prior attachment. Sooner or later the girl would tire of pining for an absent man and have Rob after all, but Mrs. Molton resented her for wasting valuable time, and failing to value her cherished son as he deserved. At this rate she would not see grandchildren until she was in her dotage. Her hints that Rob needed to secure the succession and should consider other young ladies had so far fallen upon deaf ears.
“We are off to London, on important business,” Milla stated as soon as they had all greeted each other politely.
“But your second year of mourning is not yet over,” Mrs. Molton said, startled. “I understood that you were not thinking of leaving until then.”
“Something has come up, in my family.” Miss Trevelyan presented the explanation with a slightly uneasy air. Something was amiss; Mrs. Molton could feel it in her bones.
“Not the Captain?” Rob exclaimed in alarm. “I thought he was still in the West Indies?”
“So I believe,” Miss Trevelyan said. “Not my father, mercifully, but I have received notice that my step-mother is gravely ill, and has nobody else to look after her. I must go to her.”
“You are both going?” Mrs. Molton briefly considered, and rejected, offering Milla their own roof’s hospitality while Miss Trevelyan was absent on this errand of mercy. Milla would not make for a comfortable houseguest. Besides, as an unmarried young lady Miss Trevelyan could hardly travel alone.
“Is your step-mother’s house large enough for both of you and your maids? More importantly, does she suffer from anything contagious?” Rob asked with immediate concern. “If there is the slightest danger, I would advise against either of you going. A professional nurse could be hired instead.”
“Do not worry, I foresee no danger to our health,” Milla said.
“I would offer you the use of the London house, but it is let out until the end of June. After the first of July, it will be different.”
Mrs. Molton suppressed a grimace at her son’s excessive helpfulness. They would not have had to rent out the London House if most of the former Viscount’s fortune had not gone to Milla.
“We do not plan to stay in town any longer than necessary,” Miss Trevelyan assured Rob, “and thank you for the kind thought.”
“I may have some new gowns made, while in town,” Milla said. “Is there anything I can bring you from London, Ma’am?”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Molton said, “I have all I need right here.” She could always order things from her favourite shops by letter, and had no desire to place herself under any obligation to Milla.
“Maybe I should also go up to London, to see how you are doing, in a week or two,” Rob said. His mother pursed her lips. She might have expected that. The poor besotted fool…
“Please do not change your own plans or disarrange anything at all on our behalf,” Miss Trevelyan said with an earnest look that would only achieve the exact opposite of what she intended. “This is nothing to do with you, Lord Fenton. We shall probably be back before you notice we are gone.”
“I very much doubt that,” he said. “I shall miss you – both of you – from the first hour. Dorset will not be the same without its loveliest denizens.”
“Whereas in London we shall not even be noticed among the throng of fashionable beauties,” Miss Trevelyan said ruefully. “I well remember how it was during my Season, not the most comfortable time in my life. I am almost glad that this time I shall not be frequenting any entertainments. We shall stay in, very quietly and respectably.”
“Nobody who knows you could ever think you less than respectable, Miss Trevelyan.”
“What about me?” Milla said provocatively. “Do I not look every inch the respectable widow?”
“We know you too well to be taken in by appearances, Milla.” Rob grinned at her. “But dark colours suit you so well, that you will bowl over any susceptible Londoners.”
“I may wear grey and mauve and dark blue now. In a few weeks I can go to brighter colours,” Milla said complacently. “It only makes sense to have some dresses readied in advance.”
“I look forward to admiring you in them,” Rob said gallantly. “Don’t forget to order new attire for Miss Trevelyan as well. Surely her father does not want her to be behindhand in matters of fashion.”
Mrs. Molton had sometimes wondered at the excessively modest and si
mple wardrobe affected by Miss Trevelyan. Her father could not be poor and she was his only child. Maybe that stepmother in London kept her short of funds? This visit to succour the woman in her illness might clear up any such problems amongst the Trevelyan family.
“There is something I wanted to ask both of you, before we depart,” Milla said casually, playing with her glove. “Have you ever heard of a B. Chatteris? Likely a man, but we only have the initial. Is he or she a family connection, by any chance?”
“I have never heard the name in my life,” Rob said immediately.
Mrs. Molton searched her memory. “I am not aware of more remote branches, but I have never met him or heard of the name in connection with the Molton family. Before Rob inherited, we did not have much contact with the sixth Lord Fenton. I wrote an occasional letter on major holidays, that he hardly ever bothered to acknowledge. We were not even aware that Rob was his closest heir since the death of Walter Molton five years ago.”
“I never heard of this Walter,” Milla said, interested. “Who was he?”
“The younger brother of the fifth Viscount; your husband’s uncle on the father’s side. He would have been the heir, had he not predeceased his nephew. He was only in his fifties, but his liver was shot. Walter never married, and was something of a ne’er-do-well, I am afraid. Constantly in debt, and far too much drink and womanizing. My late husband wanted nothing to do with him. We only saw him at family occasions, perhaps once a decade. I did not attend Walter’s funeral. Not many mourners there, I would imagine.”
“If he never married, that is a dead end,” Milla said, disappointed.